


No Such Thing

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Pegoryu Week 2020 [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dom/sub Undertones, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Overstimulation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25958032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Ryuji’s always been atoo muchkind of person. Akira really shouldn’t be surprised that it extends to all areas of his life, intimate and all._______Pegoryu Week 2020 - Day 7 - Free Day
Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Persona 5 Protagonist/Sakamoto Ryuji
Series: Pegoryu Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879306
Comments: 16
Kudos: 122





	No Such Thing

Ryuji’s always been a _too much_ kind of person. He likes too much ginger in his beef bowls; too much dashi in his monja; too much conversation in a voice that’s too loud for too many hours in a row. He does everything until he _can’t_ and then does it some more; reflexively, like he can’t deny the compulsion, even when it hurts.

 _Especially_ when it hurts.

Akira trains with him, and even when Ryuji’s leg starts acting up—when he can stifle the limp but not the pained little twitches at the corners of his lips—he goes for _one more_ lap, craving that hit of burning lactic acid like an addict.

They hit Domeland as a group, and even when they’ve _just_ eaten and the line is a solid forty minutes deep, Ryuji insists on riding the biggest roller coaster one last time, knowing full well he’ll end up regretting Haru’s generosity or else spewing it into a toilet bowl in a crowded, humid bathroom, stifling his gags against the judgement of overheated toddlers and their parents.

Coffee is too bitter for him, but he likes his soda with too much ice, drowning in lemon. The ramen is always too hot when it arrives at their table, but Ryuji tucks in anyway. Everything he does, he does to the nth degree, and he doesn’t even seem to _notice_ ; seems to think it’s everyone else missing out when he gorges himself on life until he nearly chokes.

Akira really shouldn’t be surprised that it extends to all areas of Ryuji’s life, intimate and all.

...he really shouldn’t be privy to all areas of Ryuji’s life, intimate and all, but _that_ , at least, is mostly Ryuji’s fault.

(...mostly.)

(...kind of…)

It’s nothing new for Ryuji to stay over after a particularly taxing Mementos run (usually when Morgana stays over with Futaba or Ann or Haru), and nothing new for Akira to trudge over to the baths for a cursory scrub before dragging himself back up LeBlanc’s stairs and collapsing onto the futon or couch—whichever Ryuji’s not already sprawled over.

It _is_ something new for Akira to change his mind with his pants already tugged halfway down his hips; for him to clock the fact that they’ve got the good herbs in the baths tonight and there are almost no lockers left and it’s going to be far more trouble than it’s worth to find a spot in the crowd when he’s already so wiped.

He ends up back in the coffee shop hardly ten minutes after leaving it, catching the door before it can slam. He laments the cheerful bell above it and locks it slow and quiet, just in case Ryuji has already fallen asleep, and creeps up the stairs like he always does, checking his phone where the screen glare won’t disturb his potentially konked-out best friend, not really paying attention to anything but skipping the one especially squeaky step.

He ends up frozen on the staircase, glasses just above attic-floor-level, sprawled over the top few steps where he’d dropped, on instinct, upon catching the hint of motion in his periphery med-stair.

He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s dropped and frozen, like whatever’s shifting atop the covers of his futon is a Shadow or something. Maybe he’d seen— _really_ seen, even subconsciously—what was going on before his brian could catch up. Maybe he’s still running on all the post-Mementos-adrenaline he hadn’t been able to soak away in the baths. Maybe that _one_ persona he’d picked up— _Mara_ , a being _truly_ built in its master’s image, holy shit—is affecting him more than he’d anticipated.

In any case, here Akira is: bruising his knees and his thighs and the bottom of his ribcage on LeBlanc’s dusty staircase, tucking his glasses down beside him so the glare doesn’t give him away, staring at his best friend arch his back on _his_ bed, shirt rucked up under his armpits and pants bunched below his hips, while he jerks off like it’s the last time he’ll ever have the chance.

So…

This is new.

A lot goes through Akira’s head; so much that it feels like nothing at all. There’s a lot to unpack here, and no time or space to do it, so the _what the fuck_ of Ryuji whacking off in Akira’s room gets all jumbled up with the _what the fuck_ of Akira watching him, and it all becomes one great big _huh?_ that’s somehow not enough to get him to slink back downstairs and slam the front door so Ryuji knows he’s back.

It’s somehow smaller than the _**huh**_ that hits him right behind the navel: watching the way Ryuji fists himself like his own hand doesn’t belong to him; like he’s not _indulging_ in the pleasure so much as _subjecting_ himself to it.

It’s hot—holy shit, it’s _hot_ : a shocking arousal so out of left field it hits Akira as a queasy undercurrent at first—but that’s not what makes Akira watch.

He watches because he’s never seen anything like it.

Because he’s _curious_.

Because Ryuji gets off like he doesn’t even like it.

Akira would have expected him to be loud—and he is, sort of, but not in the usual ways. He’s huffing hard and ragged, but there’s no voice to it. His mouth is open, but his Adam’s apple is working overtime, and the only noises that come out of him are the rough, unsteady metronome of his breath and soft, strangled swallows. He’s flicking his left thumb mindlessly over a nipple as he cants his hips hard, fucking up into his fist with such brutal force that the _slap-slap-slap_ of it is louder than his wet panting.

It looks like it hurts. It _must_ , the way he screws his eyes shut and chokes on a pained little ‘ _fuck_ ,’ like that.

But it makes Ryuji come, anyway.

The orgasm takes Akira by surprise—not just because Ryuji shoots all the way up to his chin (though that _is_ something, holy shit), but because it has no build-up. One second he’s jerking himself furiously, gasping around the gravel in his throat, and the next he’s holding his cock by the base and biting the pillow ( _Akira’s_ pillow, _holy shit_ ) and curling his hips up over himself like his abs are firing without his consent, tugging his spine into a twitchy question mark with his heels dug into the comforter.

It’s ludicrous. He looks like he comes so hard it’s going to make him sick.

Afterward, Ryuji takes a deep, shaky breath, and it hisses oddly through his teeth, still clenched around the pillow ( _Akira’s goddamned pillow, holy shit, he’ll never be able to sleep on that thing again without popping a semi_ ), and then he’s unclenching his jaw and opening his mouth around more of those raspy pants and pinching his eyebrows together into that anguished expression again, and…

And he’s…

 _Fuck_.

He’s moving his hand up and swiping his palm through the come on his chest…

And he’s moving down again to smear it over his cock...

Akira swallows hard. He’s tucked so tightly against the stairs it makes his throat shift against the ridge of a step.

Like nothing ever happened—like he hasn’t just shot his will to live out through his dick—Ryuji starts working his fist furiously again. He twists his wrist at the tip; lets his hand slip almost off the end; uses his own come as makeshift lube so the sound is sloppy-loud. He groans long and low, and mumbles, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” and thumps his head against the pillow like he fucking hates what he’s doing to himself, even as he simultaneously pinches harder at his nipple (grabs it between his fingernails like it’s not even attached to him and tugs until it goes bright red).

Akira watches, rapt, and shifts as slow and quiet as he can to try and get some of the pressure off where he’s gone rock solid in his pants, another stair ridge digging painfully against the underside of him. He has, admittedly, spent some (read: _a goddamn inordinate amount of_ ) time thinking about how Ryuji might like to be touched. He’s pictured fiercely embarrassed red cheeks and stuttered, half-remembered dirty talk copied from cheap porn. He’s pictured unexpected confidence—a wink and a shamelessly open fly and a wide, rough palm teasing over the bulge of his cock until he’s leaking a magenta stain into those obnoxiously pink briefs.

Akira’s never pictured this.

He’s never considered the idea that Ryuji might be this wanton kind of cruel.

It worries him a little.

But it turns him on more.

When Ryuji comes again, it’s with a gut-deep grunt. He manages a couple shots over his stomach, but mostly he just drools into his bellybutton, fist clenched at the base again, working his feet like he’s trying to writhe away from himself.

Akira wishes he could get closer. He wants to see how much come has clung to the knuckles of Ryuji’s fist; wants to run his tongue over the palm and then guide it back to Ryuji’s cock before he can go soft, so he can—

 _Fuck_ , he _really is going to_ —

When Ryuji’s fist starts pumping again, Akira has to shift onto one hip to get a hand underneath himself and readjust before he loses all sensation in his junk for the rest of his life. Even just that—just his own fingers pulling through two cotton layers—has him pulsing; has him wondering if he might lose it right there on the café stairs without even touching himself properly.

“Fuckin’ _shit_ ,” Ryuji grits. “Fuckin’...” He reaches down with the fingers he’s been using to abuse his nipples and digs them so hard into the spot behind his balls Akira can just make out the way his joints go white. “ _...please_ …”

 _God_ , that little ‘ _please_ ’ burrows its way into Akira’s trachea and vibrates there, thick and unyielding. He’s not even sure if Ryuji is begging himself to stop or begging himself for more—the fact that he’s begging himself _at all_ is hot enough—but whatever it’s made of, it has Akira grinding down against the hand he still has braced between his cock and the steps.

Ryuji’s lost all sense of rhythm. He jerks himself in fits and starts, hips rocking and legs caught somewhere between bent and straight, left arm taut so he can keep his fingers grinding into his prostate from the outside. He’s gotten louder. His breathing is even rougher and he keeps letting out these shuddery moans at odd intervals: partial words that sound so desperate Akira can’t be sure he’s not about to start crying.

(He can’t be sure he doesn’t _want_ Ryuji to start crying.)

(...he can’t be sure _Ryuji_ doesn’t want Ryuji to start crying.)

Slowly, Akira becomes aware that whatever Ryuji’s choking on is coalescing; it’s coming together into a low, staccato chant. It takes several long moments permeated with the wet _slap-slap-slap_ of Ryuji’s hand (wet with his _come_ ; _god_ , Akira wonders if he’ll ever achieve orgasm again without _that_ noise echoing in his ears) before Akira can make out what he’s saying:

“...just one more, just one more, _please, fuck, please_ , just _one more_ …”

Akira comes by surprise.

He stifles his gasp between his teeth and his bottom lip as he loses it in his pants, pulsing against his prone palm, squirming deeper bruises into his hips and thighs and ribs. It’s gross in so many ways—the mess in his underwear; the fact that this weird, invasive, voyeuristic act put it there; the immediate doublethink acceptance of all the times he knows he’s going to use this memory to get himself off again—but that almost makes it better. Everything about it is rough and wrong and wrung out; a ridiculously perfect chaser to everything he’s watched.

Ryuji’s eyes fly open and his head jolts toward the stairway, and for one stretched out, sick second Akira thinks he’s been too loud and gotten himself caught. But in the next moment Ryuji’s twisting back toward the wall, and then back toward the stairs again, until his spine finally buckles and he ends up curled in a somewhat silly letter C over his own hips. His cock dribbles pathetically even as it _jumps_ , violent and quick and flushed ludicrously red. His legs are splayed out, his eyes wide and staring at nothing, his mouth gaping as he gurgles out some garbled version of a groan.

It’s absurd.

It’s the hottest thing Akira’s ever seen.

For a while they lay in a strange, secret, separate afterglow. Ryuji lays spread-eagled and breathing hard, one forearm tossed up over his eyes and the other draped over his stomach, heedless of the frankly obnoxious amount of come cooling there. A step digs a trench across Akira’s cheek as he gets his wits about him. He pulls his hand up from where it’s been jammed beneath his pelvis and settles onto both palms, thankful for all his time in the Metaverse and the quiet poise it’s left him with.

He’s just getting ready to shift his weight and creep back down the stairs (and maybe out the door and into traffic—god, this is a thousand times worse than post-porn shame) when Ryuji goes from prone to a flurry of movement all at once. He rips his shirt over his head and wipes at his torso with it, sitting up and patting haphazardly at the sheets around him as if to erase the rumpled evidence. His face is drawn; mortified.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “Ah, _fuck_ , I need to stop _doing this_ here, what’s _wrong_ with me…?”

Akira shoots down the steps not unlike a spooked cat, up on his fingertips and toes, silent and single-minded in pursuit of the door.

Ryuji _needs to stop doing this here_ …?

How many times has he done it before…?

How many times has Akira come back from the bathhouse and found Ryuji already in his pajamas, mostly asleep, and not known that minutes earlier his best friend had been jerking himself raw in his bed?

How many times has he gone to sleep on a pillow that Ryuji’d been sinking his teeth into right before, pulling pleasure out of himself kicking and screaming while he’d babbled taut nonsense?

...how many times is Ryuji going to break his word and do it again?

…

...how is Akira going to find a way to come clean _and_ ask Ryuji if he can get in on it next time?

**Author's Note:**

> Shut up, I didn't skip like 3 prompts in a row, _you_ skipped like 3 prompts in a row. 😤 (Look, a bitch has a job 'n' shit, soz. 😅 I'll make up for it by following this up with an absolutely filthy Akira-overstimulating-Ryuji[-to-show-how-much-he-cares] part 2. 🙏🏾)


End file.
